


The Book of Ruth

by doctorcakeray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Characters, F/F, F/M, I think that qualifies as blasphemy), retelling of Biblical stories with demonic elements added in (so blasphemy, some blood but not graphic, things that happened in Mesopotamia, tragically in lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorcakeray/pseuds/doctorcakeray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, that one where, when Meg was human, she was known as Ruth.  She didn’t keep the name, because having a section of the Good Book named after you kind of ruins your credibility as a demon and Satan-worshipper.</p>
<p>Oh yeah, and her three thousand year ex is a hot and vengeful piece of celestial intent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Ruth

 

Meg does not hate Crowley for betraying Lucifer.

Meg has hated Crowley for most of eternity.

 

In a long lost crypt in Lincoln Springs, Missouri, Meg’s body lying bloody and empty on the street outside, Crowley says “Mesopotamia” to an angel and means _Bethlehem._

Naomi knows.

_12 th century B.C._

Ruth wasn’t born one of the chosen people, but she chose the cause.

Ruth married Mahlon in more of a transaction than a ceremony, reciting vows that tasted hollow and unfamiliar.  She lived with one of her kinswoman and the three Israelites, refugees from drought in their homeland.  She ate bread with these two sons and their mother, who had one god and not many.  It was a life, and Ruth lived it quietly and did not love her husband.  She never expected to, it was not part of the deal.  She would live and die in Moab as a wife, or, at most, a mother.

The widow surprised her.  Naomi spoke softly of Jehovah, her eyes alight and words warm with faith despite all she had suffered, and Ruth discovered devotion.

It was a good ten years.  Ruth worked from dawn to dusk and listened to Naomi tell stories of fires that spoke and seas that split, the earth and oceans open to God’s children.

Ten years, and then Mahlon and Chillon died, leaving Naomi, Ruth, and Oprah without means.  Naomi believed herself cursed to loneliness, and commanded Ruth and Oprah to leave her lest they be doomed to the same fate.  Ruth told Naomi exactly how alone she was.  Ten years side by side, stories and long evenings at the hearth, comfort and familiarity that fit a puzzle more than custom.  What waited for Ruth at her father’s house was not a life.

Ruth pled with all the honesty she knew, “Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God,” and hoped that Naomi heard, “I shall be yours,” too.

They left for Bethlehem together the next morning.  Ruth’s poetry is recited for millennia.

“Nothing but death parts you and me, or God do worse to me.”

(It is not God who does his worst.)

Death was a certainty if they didn’t make it to Bethlehem, a probability even if they did.  They hoped for aide in Bethlehem. They had none along the way.

They travelled for a fortnight.  The second night, camped out under the stars and far from any village, Ruth kissed Naomi.  They were hungry in too many ways, but not this one.

(Later, on a whim, Meg googles the Judea Hills, and realizes she was a contender for the mile high club long before planes were invented).

It was in those hills that Ruth’s faith caved.  One night when the embers of the fire were burning low and Naomi was exhausted enough to sleep despite the pains of hunger, Ruth snuck back to the trail, followed it to the branching footpath she had spotted the prior evening.  She remembered stories that an aging aunt told her, stories before Naomi’s, and dug a shallow hole, dropping a few items wrapped in rags in it, and gently pushed the soft black soil back over the ground.  She waited.

Ruth held her breath when red eyes met hers from the shadows.  She took a deep lungful of cold night air and asked, “What do you call yourself?”

The creature smiled as it stepped forward into grey moonlight.  “Crowley.”

~~~~

Ruth stayed up the rest of the night, silent and still until Naomi stirred with the rising sun.  Then Ruth snapped into action, leaning into Naomi to kiss until she no longer tasted ash.

~~~~~~

The first day they arrived in Bethlehem, Ruth met Boaz.  He was pleasant, plain, wealthy, and unmarried.  He said exactly the necessary things and he and Ruth were married by the end of the week, right on schedule.

Ruth lied with him once, on their wedding night.  It was her way of sealing the marriage, insurance on a deal that was already ironclad.  Mostly, she knew how fast ten good years could go by, and she didn’t want to leave Naomi alone.  She prayed for God to grace Naomi with a long life.

Obed was born on a clear winter day.  He cried loudly and the whole town rejoiced.  Naomi took him out while Ruth rested, showed him the frost on the ground and the neighbors who came bearing gifts.  Once night fell and Obed finally slept, Naomi pillowed Ruth’s head in her lap as they watched the merry fire burning in the hearth.  Naomi combed her fingers through Ruth’s sweaty, matted hair, and told Ruth that she was a gift from God, whispered her beauty and kindness, and Ruth fell asleep with a smile on her face.

“We have a son,” Ruth said one dawn to the thatched roof, and Naomi rolled on top of her, her eyes alight before she settled over Ruth to kiss her deeply.

Even as a toddler, Ruth could see the airs that Obed could affect, the fervor and seriousness in him even when he babbled nonsense.  She knew that one day he would tell stories as well as Naomi, and wished that she could meet that man.

The women called Obed Naomi’s son; they said Ruth was a gift greater than seven sons.  Ruth filled with warmth and love.

At nine years, Obed was strong and smart, resourceful and respectful, much like his two mothers.  Ruth was sad to go, but she did not regret.  She walked out alone that midnight ten years later, through their farmland and past it.  She remembered the tales, from so much earlier in her life, and waited for the howls.

When they found her body late the next morning, the corpse was nearly unrecognizable.  They wondered how wolves dragged her out that far.

Naomi grieved for the rest of her years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruth dripped with blood and brimstone in hell and Azazel hissed in her ear, “God didn’t give you what you needed, did he?”

Years and years later, she answered, “Yes.”

Azazel knew she’d see it eventually.  Up above, Samuel wrote down her story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Naomi ascended to Heaven, Ruth was not there to greet her.  Naomi waited, alone since the reaper left her, and watched history unfold.  David rose, and Raphael came to see it with her, told her about memory and the human race.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No, Naomi was not there for the plague of the firstborn, but she remembered her mother telling the story to her, and passing it on to her sons, and Ruth.

Ruth saw Naomi for the first time in a millennia at the crucifixion of Christ.  There were so many demons and angels there, mixed in with the audience of humans and unseen.  Ruth couldn’t read Naomi’s expression, she couldn’t read the light or the vessel, couldn’t tell if it was hate and betrayal in her eyes or just the desire to smite demon filth.  Naomi stood ramrod straight and turned back to the event.  She didn’t look at Ruth again.

Crowley wove through the crowd, nodded at each of them.  “Well if it isn’t the Moabitess and Mara,” he grins.

_Alien and empty_ , Ruth thought.  It fit.

She stood longer than any human could, and watched the dying man.  To this day, she still can’t decide if he’s a worse pawn than her or a better dealmaker.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was nearly two millennia before she saw Naomi again.

“All the pieces are falling into place,” Ruth said outside a suburban home.  Azazel was at work inside.

“Yes,” Naomi agreed.  “Your kind will fall.”

“Maybe, but I like our odds.”

Naomi looked at Ruth, her meatsuit’s visage cool and calculating.  “You once said we would die together.”

“That was a long time ago,” Ruth replied, watching the house, and shrugged.  “Could still happen.”  She thought, but didn’t say, _you could fall, for me,_ because that was exactly what she never wanted.

Ruth didn’t watch Naomi leave, just listened to the flutter of wings.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ruth met Sam Winchester hitchhiking on a road in the middle of nowhere.  She went by the meatsuit’s name. She always goes by the meatsuit’s name.  Things can get a little awkward for a demon when a book in the Bible is named after you.

It was all going so well, until she got sent to hell again.  Once she got back earthside, she took pleasure in beating Sam’s face in.

When Lucifer came, he was beautiful.  The morning star.  Ruth thought it might be the first dawn she had seen in three thousand years.

She decided to stick with the name Meg.  It reminded of her Moabite, and Mara, and mornings.

~~~~~~~~~

Sunrise lasted for less than a minute, as it does, before an angel shoved her into holy fire and walked all over her.  They got so close, and it all crumbled.  It was so close to being over.

~~~~~~~~~

It gets worse, which Meg wouldn’t have thought possible.  She has the longest vendetta against Crowley by far, and has no other particular desire than his demise after the end of the world gets cancelled.  Unfortunately, the piece of shit is actually smart enough to figure that out.

Trashing his monster fun house and making out with an angel is more exhilarating and irreverent than anything Meg has done in….possibly all of creation.  She used to be all about reverence, but you change over three thousand years.

Taking care of an angel who isn’t running on all tracks is surprisingly similar to attending to a cranky nine year old in biblical Mesopotamia, she has to admit.

Killing Leviathans is fun.  It’s not a yes or no question, they just need to die.

Torture is nothing new, until she has to leave her Clarence for a chance to kill Crowley.  Except, that isn’t a question, either.

~~~~~~~~~

Ruth died three thousand years ago, Naomi tells herself, and the flesh lying on the pavement isn’t her, the thing inside it was never her.  She flies into the crypt.  Naomi entertains the notion of smiting Crowley right there, but he has half a tablet hidden somewhere, and that isn’t any good.

“If you remember our time in Mesopotamia the way I do, you know I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

Crowley likes to remember the deal on a dirt path in the Judea Hills as providing for two lovers, and not as parceling out damnation.

He once asked Ruth to sign a copy of the Bible for him.  She set it on fire.  He said that was good enough.

~~~~~~~~

Naomi doesn’t remember what love felt like, until she sees inside Metatron’s head and feels grief like she hasn’t felt since she was alive.

She hopes Dean Winchester listened to her.  What sort of greater good demanded this much sacrifice?

Naomi doesn’t notice Metatron until it is too late.  Her vessel’s blood pools on the tabletop.

~~~~~~~~~

Meg was pretty sure that angel blades annihilated demons, so she is very confused when she wakes up in a bed in a farmhouse that hasn’t existed for three thousand years.  Every detail in the house is the same, and when she walks outside the fields are exactly how they always looked in April, right before a harvest.

Naomi walked towards her, a teetering child at her side holding onto as many of her fingers as he could fit in his tiny hand.  “Good morning,” she said, smiling.  “Obed woke early so we went for a walk to keep the house peaceful.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you woke me,” Meg says automatically.

“You work too hard,” Naomi chastised.  “You don’t have to do everything.  Get your rest.”

“I’m awake now,” Meg says, scooping up Obed.  He giggled, and she freezes.  “I remember this,” she says quietly.

“Let’s eat,” Naomi said, as if nothing was off.  Meg tries to stop her from heading into the house, but Naomi slipped right by her, didn’t react as Meg calls out.

“What is this?!” Meg shouts.  “I’ve got too much experience in hell to know this isn’t it.”  As soon as the words escape her mouth, Meg knows where she is.  She feels like she should laugh, like this is all some big joke.

“Repeating your life,” Meg says to herself.  “Yeah, that’s great deal.”

Naomi leaned in to kiss her, and Meg turns away.  The apparition doesn’t even react.

“I’ve lived with these memories for long enough,” Meg says.  She looks up, and everywhere is blue Bethlehem sky.  The hills she traversed so long ago rise up on the horizon, and she feels like she could trace her path through them, even standing so far away, like the road is seared somewhere into her being.  She starts walking.

An age later, she comes to a garden.  She has seen every garden and wild on the globe, many that no longer exist, and this is none of them.  It is all of them.

The rock music playing in the background, that part is new.  She follows lyrics like they are a floating reel in space, and the damp dirt beneath her feet turns into hardwood slats and a pool table and a long counter.

A man behind the bar waves at her, “Hello, wanderer.”  His haircut is atrocious, and it kind of makes her want to tear his whole head off.

“Tell me what is going on,” she demands.

Her look must spell murder, because he instantly goes, “Whoa there, what do you already know?  You new here?”

She rolls her eyes.  “New?  To heaven?  Yeah, you could say that.”

“Do you by any chance know Sam and Dean Winchester?”

“I died saving their sorry asses.”

The man behind the counter smiles.  “Welcome to the club.  Would you like a beer?”

“That is the only worthwhile thing you’ve said so far,” she replies.  “Yes.”

He pops a bottle open and slides in over to her.  Beer in heaven?  Surprising.  Beer in heaven being perfect?  Not so surprising.

“So,” she starts, waving a hand around.  “Are there other… ‘people’ people around here?”

“You mean not memories?” he says.  “Yeah, but most people can’t leave their own heaven.  Wanderers like us are rare.”

“So glad to double up on special little clubs with you,” Meg says.  “So everyone has their own heaven?  What do the angels do up here?”

“Usually,” the man shrugs.  “They just keep to themselves being their dick selves.  But I haven’t seen any angels in a while.”

Meg arches an eyebrow.  “Define ‘a while.’”

He wrinkles his nose unattractively.  “Two, three days earth time probably?  The conversion up here is variable.”

“Where up here would the angels normally be?”

“Their offices,” the man answers.

“Offices?”

He leans in closer, smiling.  “Angels are not all that creative.”

“Ah,” she says.  “How do I get to these offices?”

He slips out a laptop from beneath the bar.  “I can program you a door.”

“That’s convenient.”

“You need a partner?”

“I can handle myself, MacGyver.”

“Good luck, Agent 99.”

Meg smiles back at him.  Maybe this one isn’t a total ass.

Meg steps from the bar into white halls and opaque windows with steel frames.  “Oh goody,” she mutters to herself.  “Minimalism meets science fiction.”  She wanders the maze of identical hallways, encountering no one, and tries to spiral in, looking for some sort of central meeting place.  There are desks, armchairs, and blank sheets of paper in many rooms, but nothing else.  She listens and watches, but it all remains the same, until the taste in her mouth changes, a familiar copper scent bringing her attention.  Blood.

It’s hard to tell where the smell is coming from. It’s like playing hot and cold with a whisper.  It feels like hours before the scent finally becomes distinct.

She finds a body slumped over a table, blood dripping off the metal surface and soaking down the back of a grey suit.  Meg recognizes Naomi’s meatsuit.  It’s not empty though.  Meg can see a bit of a glow to it, but nothing like a fully powered angel.

Meg moves in closer.  The vessel’s eyes are open and blank, pale face framed by red hair matted with blood.  Meg slides the drill out of the base of the skull and lays the body down on the tiled floor.

“This is messy,” Meg says.  “About what I’m used to.  Can never seem to work myself all the way up to knees deep in blood.”  The drill sits off to the side, and Meg wonders what kind of weapon it is, if it can kill an angel.  She doesn’t know where a dead angel goes, if demons go to heaven.

“I said we would die together,” Meg says as she kneels next to the prone body.  “This really isn’t working out.”

Naomi blinks at her, and Meg startles and leans forward.  “Careful,” Naomi says as Meg places a hand on her shoulder.  “The vessel is still healing.”

“Alright,” Meg says.  “So why did you have a drill sticking out the back of your head?”

“Metatron incapacitated me,” Naomi explains evenly.  “And then cast all the angels out of heaven.”

“The Scribe of God?  Cast _everyone_ out?  As in how God did with Lucifer?” Meg asks.

“No,” Naomi snaps, and Meg watches her coolly.  “It depends on your rhetoric,” Naomi amends.  “How are you here?”

Meg shrugs.  “Crowley stabbed me and I woke up in Bethlehem.”

Naomi stares up Meg for a moment, eyes wide and not quite blank.  She raises herself up slowly on her elbows.  “You died as a demon and came to heaven?”

“I don’t know how that worked, either,” Meg breathes out, and doesn’t know how or why she’s breathing.

“You’re three thousand years later than I expected,” Naomi comments, like it’s a simple observation.

Meg arches an eyebrow at her.

“Your heaven is Bethlehem,” Naomi repeats.

“Cut the crap,” Meg says.  “Are you trying to ask a dumb question?”

“I forgot how beautiful you are to look at,” Naomi says.

“I’m ugly,” Meg states.  “I’m a monster.”

“No,” Naomi says, and then smiles wistfully.  “You’re a gift greater than seven sons.  Far, far greater.”

“How many sons are we talking here,” Meg says.  “Seven million sons?”  She waves a hand.  “Is that a start?”

“That sounds irritating,” Naomi replies, as if she actually tried to imagine it and was repulsed.

Meg can’t help it, she laughs.  And it hurts and feels wonderful all at once.  Suddenly Naomi is kissing her, and she can’t breathe anymore, and she is probably too many levels of dead to need to, but this feels electric and alive.

It shouldn’t be possible, Naomi is an angel in a vessel and Meg is an untethered, tattered soul, but Naomi presses her lips to Meg’s forehead, cheeks, lips, whispering a name that Meg thought she would never want to be called again. She feels blessed.

~~~~~~~~

They make their way back to MacGyver’s bar, Meg slipping the laptop right out of Bad Hair’s fingers.  He yelps for a moment, then goes instantly silent when Naomi fixes him with a stare.

Naomi taps a few keys, and then says, “You’re fluent in Enochian?”

“Uh, me?  Yes.  Enough.”

Naomi doesn’t look up, her eyes quickly scanning the screen and a smile slowly spreading over her features.  “You’ve made an incredible weapon.”

“Thanks, I think,” the man shrugs.  “I’m Ash.”

Meg pops down from where she’d perched on the counter, smiling.  “All Business there is Naomi.  I’m Ruth, though you’ve probably heard the Winchesters refer to me as ‘Meg the demon.’”

Ash looks horrified and dumbfounded all at once, and then says, “I need a beer.”

“Pour a couple,” Naomi adds, eyes still glued to the screen and her smile showing teeth.

“You heard the lady,” Meg grins at Ash, then leans towards Naomi.  “Now tell me, love, what sort of scheming is going on in your wavelengths?”


End file.
